


Behavioral

by yeaka



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Discipline, Dom/sub Undertones, Ficlet, M/M, Mild Humiliation, PWP, Sexual Fantasy, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:01:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22203016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Maybe Hank should control Connor more thoroughly.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 11
Kudos: 216





	Behavioral

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Detroit: Become Human or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Connor runs regular self-diagnostics. He does catch the little oddities that occasionally spring up out of his personality algorithms, because CyberLife’s worked so hard to make him _seem_ real that it’s occasionally difficult to determine which words are just his programming and which are unintentional mutations. Of course he’s not a deviant. But he appreciates the systems he does have to be sure of that, such as Amanda and Hank.

Hank isn’t exactly a _system_ , but Hank’s an intelligent man who understands the danger of unrestrained artificial intelligence. Hopefully he would slap Connor back down if Connor were ever to make such a grave mistake. He’s too valuable an asset to simply be replaced over every little thing—it’s always a detriment to CyberLife’s police liaison budget and an unnecessary increase in their carbon footprint. Certainly sometimes he _must_ be replaced, but Connor prefers to reserve that for when he’s been shot in the head or hit by a train. 

Saying something out of line to Hank might be an unacceptable response for an android. It might be a sign of _too_ much personality. Of _free will_. Connor can’t afford that. He needs Hank to step in, not just glare at him, but nod pointedly to the side of his desk. 

Connor’s what Hank might then call ‘a good little android.’ Of course he gets out of his chair and walks to the area Hank’s eyeing. Of course he braces his palms against the smooth surface of Hank’s desk, eyes downcast through heavy lashes. He wouldn’t dare look at a human again after such an outrageous comment. He allows Hank to pace around him, look at him, observe him from head to toe in search of more signs—little things, like his jacket being too wrinkled or the garters holding up his socks being uneven. But Hank wouldn’t be able to see that without removing his pants. Connor would remove it all under Hank’s watchful eye, or allow it to be removed—in this scenario, he’s been instructed to keep his hands on the desk. So Hank comes up behind him and runs greedy hands all over his body, squeezing and kneading him through his clothes, reminding him he’s _property_. Hank unknots Connor’s tie and rips it away swift enough to catch and nearly choke him, but Connor deserves the rough treatment. He’s been a bad android, and he needs to be _punished_. 

He lets his pants be pushed to his feet, and he obediently steps out of them. He lets his shirt be torn away, ripping two buttons off in the process—he’ll need to sew them back on afterwards, unless Hank wants to keep them off—wants a little window for a peek at the supple flesh of Connor’s taut chest. Connor’s left standing there, and Hank skillfully taps the panel at his temple that allows him to react to the temperature. It leaves him shivering in the cold open air of the station. He’s humiliated before all his peers—except they’re _not_ his peers; that’s the whole point. Connor has to understand that he’s merely a toy for their amusement. His body is sculpted to look just like any human’s, perhaps a little tighter, with firmer muscles, slender and lean but strong and ripe. He can feel other eyes all over him—across the room, Reed smirks, because Connor’s finally getting what he deserves. Maybe Hank will pass him around after; Connor doesn’t know.

No. Hank’s possessive. He runs his thick hand around Connor’s throat and reminds Connor, “You’re _mine_ , Android. You don’t say a _word_ without permission.”

“Yes, Lieutenant,” Connor breathes, and that too is a mistake—Hank’s hand abruptly comes down against the soft cheeks of his ass. Connor yelps, taken by surprise, not truly _pained_ but perhaps a little sore—he can _feel_ it, because Hank hits hard enough to bruise him right through the outer layer of synthetic skin and down to his base parts. Another few hits come in rapid succession, but Connor sucks in a breath and takes them, submissively bearing his punishment. 

He doesn’t miss the way Hank’s hands linger over his reddened cheeks afterwards, blunt fingertips digging into his abused skin. He feels Hank lean over him, beard tickling his shoulder, and Hank growls, “Have you learned your lesson, yet?”

In real time, Connor’s eyes linger across the open files on his desk. He’s still waiting on Hank to return from Fowler’s office. He has time. So he closes his eyes and answers, “No, Lieutenant. Please use me more.”

A derisive snort, and Hank pushes him down. Hank’s hand burns into the small of his back, shoving him right against the desk—everything knocks off, and Hank orders, “You’ll pick that up after.”

“Yes, Lieutenant.”

Connor keeps his cheek turned against the wood, eyes hazy as he peers up at his partner. Owner/Master? He keeps his feet square on the grand, rear perked up, back arched—he tries to present himself as best he can for Hank’s amusement. Hank’s hungry eyes roam over him, momentarily forgetting he’s an _android_ , just seeing a tempting young man ready to be fucked. 

Hank bears over him and shoves two fingers in his mouth—Connor subserviently opens up. He sucks Hank’s fingers down and wets them, knowing what Hank wants, knowing it isn’t necessary, but understanding that Hank wouldn’t want to truly damage him. Hank wouldn’t take the risk, and Hank doesn’t understand androids well enough. He doesn’t know that all of Kamski’s favourite models can be entered at any time in any hole. Connor doesn’t provide that information, because he won’t speak again without permission. 

He lets Hank’s fingers trail slickly down his body, tracing a wet path to the hump of his ass, pressing between his cheeks and rubbing across his hole. Connor flexes it open, and Hank’s breath hitches, surprised but pleased. Hank chuckles darkly, “Well, aren’t you eager to please?”

Connor says, “Only for you, Lieutenant,” then deems that too sassy for the moment and rewinds, instead just nodding against the desk. 

He vacillates on how large to make Hank’s cock. He has no information on what size it _actually_ is, and he has no particular preference. He can extrapolate most of Hank’s naked body except for that part. But Hank should keep his clothes on for this. Hank only opens his pants enough to take himself out and push inside of Connor—maybe _so_ big that it’s actually difficult for Connor to take him. Connor _screams_ helplessly, but the other androids lining the walls do nothing. Reed whistles. Miller’s lazily jerking off to the sight of Connor _wrecked_. But Connor is only for Hank. 

Connor takes Hank’s dick even when it forces his walls too wide. It goes too deep and dribbles precum in what should be a vacuum-clean channel; Hank wouldn’t use a condom. Hank would thrust into Connor over and over, pounding him against the desk, sweating onto his back, hissing about how good he feels and how he’s such a good android. Connor even pushes back onto Hank’s cock, begging to take it deeper. 

He can’t decide if he wants Hank to come inside him or on him. Maybe he wants Hank to come on the floor and make him lick it up. Maybe he wants Hank to pull out, drag him off the desk, and shove into his mouth until his entire stomach cavity is filled up with human seed. 

Connor doesn’t know which Hank would prefer. Connor wants to do what Hank prefers. His own choice would just make him _more deviant_ , and the whole point of this is Hank keeping him in line. Maybe Hank should have him handcuffed. Maybe he should be in a holding cell or chained up inside a stall in the washroom. 

But then he wouldn’t be able to solve cases, and he has to do that too. 

“Connor?”

Connor glances up, temporarily suspending his daydreaming protocol. Hank’s looking at him funny, which makes Connor wonder how long he’s been staring into space, thinking about being full of dick. His external sensors were offline for the complexity of his internal processing, so there’s no way to know. He innocently asks, “What did Captain Fowler have to say?”

“Are you hard?”

Connor resets his autonomic responses and lies, “No.” Then he deliberately returns his gaze to his computer screen and disengages his daydream functionality—clearly, that particular program shouldn’t be run at work.


End file.
